


What I Hide By My Language, My Body Utters

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, M/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-10
Updated: 2014-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-16 19:58:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2282658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a prompt from Tumblr user thetwogaydetectives - "fake relationship that ends up being so real, they finally realize they are in love."</p><p>Probably not EXACTLY what she was looking for... but, eh, my muse has its own kinks to fulfill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What I Hide By My Language, My Body Utters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nickygp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nickygp/gifts).



"Kiss me, John. You have to kiss me." Sherlock's voice was intense, the words spoken so quickly that they were almost unintelligible.

"I - what?" John asked, spinning away from the sound of footsteps and murmuring voices quickly approaching from the bend of the hallway. 

" _Kiss me_ ," Sherlock insisted, and, tensing as he realized what this would mean, John complied, reaching up with one hand to cup the back of Sherlock's head, noting the softness of Sherlock's curls before their lips met. 

This was _not_ how John had envisioned this case going when the young man, a potential client, had shown up in their flat that mornning. The man had been completely distraught, barely able to get his story out until Sherlock finally got frustrated and told John to bring the stuttering, pitiable man a cup of tea. 

The young man was named Farley Fanslau and his fiancé was missing. Normally, it would be something for the police to investigate, except that Farley's fiancé had disappeared from his job bartending at a local gay club 36 hours before and while being watched by Farley. 

"Couldn't he have left with someone?" John asked gently, trying not to upset Farley again now that the short, nervous man had calmed enough to be able to tell his story. He was holding a photograph of Jack Brisbane, his missing fiancé. The man in the photograph had dark hair, a winning smile, and a strong jaw. He was the exact opposite of the small, ginger-haired, glasses-wearing Farley. John could understand if Jack had been having second thoughts about the engagement. 

"Not my Jack," Farley insisted. "Besides, I was there that night. I like watching him work; he's beautiful when he's mixing drinks and telling flirts off." Farley's delicate features brightened into a brief smile before his face fell again. "We'd had a fight during his break... about money. Stupid, but the wedding costs keep growing and with him bartending and me still going to university, it's putting a lot of stress on us." Farley looked miserable, his face tightening as his eyes flicked between John and Sherlock. 

"You fought in the club?" Sherlock asked. 

"Yeah, right near the loos. We managed not to start shouting, but it was a near thing. It wasn't really sorted by the time his break was over and he had to get back to work, so I was planning to stay until the end of his shift so we could get it worked out as soon as he was off the clock." Farley shifted in his chair, face tightening as he remembered. "The club was closing down for the night, turning the lights back up so everyone knew it was time to leave. I was watching him, waiting for the last of the men to leave, and someone bumped into me and made me spill my drink. By the time he was done apologizing and I looked back up, Jack was _gone_. At first, I thought maybe he'd just ducked into the supply room to grab something, but he didn't come back. I checked the bathrooms and the supply room and down the back hall to the office and even checked with Dylan, the DJ, to see if maybe he'd seen Jack leaving. No one had seen _anything_. He's been gone for almost 36 hours and he hasn't texted or called or come by our flat or _anything!_ " 

"Okay, calm down," John said; Farley was working himself back up, his face flushing as his breathing became increasingly erratic. 

"He almost certainly found someone else to leave with," Sherlock said, sounding bored as he turned to stare into the empty fireplace. "Terribly sorry about the engagement." 

"He _didn't_ ," Farley insisted, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a leather wallet to wave it angrily at Sherlock. "He left his _wallet_ beneath the bar! Why would he leave me for someone else but forget his _wallet?_ " 

Sherlock sighed, turning to glare at Farley. John cleared his throat, glancing at Sherlock surreptitiously. "Maybe we could at least visit the club?" John offered. "We could look around for clues?" 

Sherlock turned his glare to John, silent. John shrugged minutely and Sherlock sighed, glancing back at Farley. " _Fine_. We will visit the club." 

That was how they'd ended up that evening standing in the dimly lit back hallway of The Copa, Sherlock having found a scuff mark from a shoe dragging away from the back of the bar towards the door that led to the hallway and, eventually, the office. Considering the dimness of the club and the sheer number of men crammed into the building that Saturday evening, John was amazed that Sherlock had even been able to make out the scuff mark on the cement floor. He'd been even more amazed that no one had tried to stop them when Sherlock subtly picked the lock to the back hallway. Thankfully, Sherlock had been fast and the temporary bartender who was replacing Farley's Jack had been occupied at the other end of the bar, so it didn't seem as if anyone had actually seen them sneaking past the door clearly marked Employees Only. 

The hallway was L-shaped, wrapping behind the public bathrooms. Sherlock had found more scuff marks leading down the hallway and one low on the wall where the hallway bent. He'd been in the process of picking the office door when they'd heard the door leading back into the club open, the sound of the music going from a low bass thumping to recognizable sounds for a moment before the door shut. When the sound of low, murmuring voices and footsteps began approaching them where they stood just beyond the L-bend of the hallway, Sherlock had shoved his lock picks in his Belstaff coat pockets, turning to stare at John with single-minded intensity. 

"Kiss me, John. You have to kiss me." 

"I - what?" John was struggling to catch up. They'd only been in the hallway a scant two minutes, Sherlock bending to examine the floor and John admiring the line of his jaw as the taller man twisted his head this way and that, his curls tumbling as he tilted his head to stare at the scuff mark low on the wall. Almost a year and a half in Sherlock's company had made John sure of one thing: life wasn't fair. His flatmate was fascinating, brilliant, incredibly gorgeous, and - unfortunately - completely uninterested in sex. John knew this last one painfully well since he'd made a few overtures, hoping to induce some sort of favorable reaction. He'd even watched Irene Adler, a well-known and powerful dominatrix, try to win Sherlock over, but nothing seemed to truly get behind the wall of ice he'd put up around himself. So, John had long since resigned himself to a 'look but don't touch' policy when it came to his lovely flatmate. And now, Sherlock was demanding a _kiss?_

" _Kiss me_ ," Sherlock insisted. John tensed; this was like the beginning of far too many of his late-night wank fantasies. But Sherlock was staring at John, his pale blue-green eyes wide and his face tense, and the sound of footsteps was growing louder. This was not going to end well, John realized, before reaching up with one hand to cup the back of Sherlock's head, noting the softness of Sherlock's curls before their lips met. 

Sherlock's mouth tasted like tea. It wasn't truly surprising; they'd had some just before leaving the flat twenty minutes ago. But John knew he would absolutely not be able to drink tea again for awhile without picturing this moment and the softness of Sherlock's lips against his own, the warmth of Sherlock's mouth as John's tongue dove in to tease and twist with Sherlock's. 

John brought his other hand up to cup Sherlock's jaw, fingertips playing lightly with Sherlock's earlobe. He could feel Sherlock's arms coming around him, one at his upper back and the other sliding down until Sherlock's fingers cupped one of John's arse cheeks and squeezed, prompting a pleased moan from John. He pressed forward, pinning Sherlock against the office door that the tall man had been attempting to unlock only seconds before, their bodies pressed flush together. John knew his growing erection was pressing against Sherlock's body, but he didn't care because he could feel _Sherlock's_ erection pressing against him. Good God, was the sexless detective actually _enjoying_ this? 

"Hey, what do you two think you're doing?" The words seeped in slowly; John was much too involved in the feeling of Sherlock's tongue, lips, and teeth; the clench of his own hand into those velvety-soft curls; the press of Sherlock's hips to his own as Sherlock slowly rutted his erection against John. 

The words finally sank in and John broke the kiss, turning to look at the man and woman who were staring them down, arms crossed and faces torn between amusement and annoyance. The man's head was shaved bald and his arms looked to be in danger of ripping through the sleeves of his button-up shirt Lou Ferrigno-style, his neck muscles bulging as his jaw tightened. The woman was blonde, sweet-faced, and taller than Sherlock, although that may have been due to the 6" pumps she wore. John hadn't heard the clatter of the heels coming down the hallway, but that was possibly due to his mind being otherwise engaged. 

"I uh... we were..." 

"Sorry," Sherlock said, reaching down to grab John's hand. "We were just going." 

"Yeah," John agreed, his brain still struggling to catch up; its blood flow had been temporarily rerouted, after all. 

Sherlock nearly dragged him past the man and woman and back to the door that led into the darkened club. He held on to John's hand until they had woven their way through the club patrons and out onto the street. There were enough streetlights, headlights, and lit up shop signs as to make the nighttime considerably brighter than the dimness inside the club, and John was able to see a flush on Sherlock's throat and cheeks before the other man dropped his hand and spun away, pacing down the pavement for several steps before he blew out a long breath. 

"That was interesting," Sherlock said, his voice low and thoughtful. 

"It was? I mean, I thought so -" John began, a stab of excitement making him take a step after the taller man. 

"The door I was trying to break into was supposed to lead to the back office; that's what Farley told us. But the air leaking under the door smelled faintly of chemicals and human excrement. I think there's more going on in that club than they're letting on. I had suspected as much when I did a little research this afternoon into disappearances of gay men in this area. There have been an unusual number of them who frequented The Copa. We're going to have to go back, John. We need to keep up this pretense of being a couple and see if they'll take one of us." 

"I... wait, _that's_ what was interesting? The _door?_ " 

"No, the scent coming from _under_ the door." Sherlock turned back to stare at John, the flush gone from his face and his expression as cool and collected as ever. "Try to keep up, John." 

"Right. Right." John stared at Sherlock, flabbergasted. Then, finally, he sighed and rubbed his palm across his face. "Right. Okay. So we'll be coming back again tomorrow night?" 

"Every night for the foreseeable future. I'm afraid we're going to have to play it up, though; if we're to be a convincing couple, we'll need to be much more physical with one another." 

"Fantastic," John muttered, his voice dry. He'd just had one of the best snogs of his life; he was almost certainly going to be replaying it in his mind tonight when he was laying in bed. And now he was being told that it would possibly be happening again and with regularity... and there was no chance of it leading anywhere. This was going to be an incredibly frustrating case. 

* * * * *

Sherlock could _dance_. John had never had any idea that his tall, self-contained flatmate could so easily drop all his tight self-control and _move_ like this. John had been to a few clubs in his life and had happily spent hours twisting and moving on a dance floor with both women and men, but it was taking everything in him to try to keep up with Sherlock now. 

He let Sherlock take the lead, watching the smooth, rhythmic undulation of Sherlock's hips and the twist of his shoulders as he moved to the throbbing beat. It was like watching something elemental moving, like the twist of fire as it rose from wood or the way water moved around rocks in a stream. Watching the tall, thin man dancing was absolutely entrancing; John couldn't seem drag his eyes away. 

It was also incredibly pleasant to be able to see Sherlock out in public without his long Belstaff and scarf hiding him from the world. To successfully pull off the 'gay couple out for a fun evening' look, he'd agreed to leave the flat in just a button-down shirt and jeans, leaving a couple extra buttons undone to expose more of his pale, beautiful chest. John could see a small rivulet of sweat making it's way down that bared portion of Sherlock's chest just then, and he fought the urge to lean in and lick it away. They were dancing right now; John had to concentrate on their cover roles. 

After several songs, though, Sherlock leaned down, his lips moving against the shell of John's ear. "You'll need to do something other than stare at me if we're to put on a convincing show of being a couple." 

"Oh, right," John said, glancing around the club. No one was looking at them at the moment, but that didn't mean that someone hadn't been before or wouldn't be soon. But if they stayed on the dance floor, he'd never be able to concentrate on anything but the smooth undulations of Sherlock's body, so John took Sherlock's hand and pulled the taller man after him to the bar. 

A few minutes later, drinks in hand, they sat at one of the tables scattered around the edge of the dance floor. Sherlock's skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat that practically shimmered in the shifting colored spotlights positioned above the dance floor. John slid his chair around the edge of the table until he was sitting next to Sherlock. They were supposed to be a couple; John would act as if they were. 

John's hand settled gently but firmly on Sherlock's thigh, fingers stroking over the dark jeans drawn taught over the muscle beneath. Sherlock's thigh tightened at John's touch and John rubbed his palm gently over the muscle, soothing. Slowly, Sherlock relaxed. John looked up at Sherlock's face, taking in his expression. Sherlock's eyes were heavy-lidded and he was sending sideways glances at John under his eyelashes. 

"You dance really well," John said, leaning close enough that his lips brushed against Sherlock's skin high on his cheek, trying to be heard over the music. "I could watch you all night." 

Sherlock looked pleased. "Some other time, perhaps," he said. "Tonight, we need to put on a show of being focused on one another while watching for anything suspicious. It seems like gay men have been disappearing at a rate of one or two a week. Farley's fiancé was the first one this week, so it stands to reason that there should be another suspicious disappearance tonight or tomorrow." 

John looked around the packed club, eyes going wide. There had to be nearly 150 people crammed into the building in an undulating, twitching, sweating mass. How on _earth_ were they supposed to notice a single person being culled? 

"There are patterns to the movement," Sherlock said, his voice directly in John's ear. The man had leaned over while John was staring around the club, and John could feel the warm puff of Sherlock's breath tickling against his temple as the other man spoke and the subtle trickle of Sherlock's fingertips sliding up and down his back between his shoulderblades. "It's like watching schools of fish swimming. Watch for the patterns of movement." 

John let his eyes go unfocused, not trying to look at individuals but instead letting the whole of the crowd blend together. After a few minutes of Sherlock's breath moving teasingly against his skin, he realized that Sherlock was right; there were patterns to the way the crowd moved. People drank and talked and moved between tables and danced and drank and talked and moved between tables. He drew in a sharp breath and his eyes refocused. Now that he was aware of the patterns, he could see them clearly. 

"Good," Sherlock rumbled, and John realized the other man was nuzzling the tip of his nose into John's hair. Adrenaline pinged through John and he pressed his hand more firmly against the lean thigh beneath it. "You've seen the patterns. Now look for anything that doesn't conform." 

John let his eyes slide over the crowds of people, ignoring the groups moving in the ways they were meant to be and looking for anyone who didn't quite fit. There, against the wall, a blonde woman who appeared to be alone and was watching the crowd with a thoughtful expression. Didn't he know her...? 

"That woman," John said, giving the slightest nod of his head. 

"Exactly," Sherlock murmured, and his lips were moving against the outside edge of John's ear. 

"Jesus," John whispered, desire sliding through his body at the feel of Sherlock's mouth against the sensitive skin. But Sherlock apparently hadn't noticed and was going on, his warm lips tickling along John's earlobe as he lowered his head. 

"That woman was in the hallway yesterday evening. She was the one who discovered us trying to pick the lock." Sherlock paused, teeth nipping at the edge of John's jaw just under his ear. John's fingers tightened on Sherlock's thigh beneath the table. "I think she has something to do with this. The overly-bulked up man is on the opposite side of the club, behind you. He is doing a better job of blending in, but it's still obvious that he is watching people rather than taking in the ambiance." 

"So, they're the ones taking men?" John asked, trying to relax his hand. He stroked his fingers lightly down Sherlock's thigh and then drew them back up again until he could slide them over the jut of Sherlock's hipbone and then slowly up Sherlock's side. 

"Apparently," Sherlock murmured, and accompanied the word with a flick of his tongue against the side of John's neck. John went limp for a moment, sagging heavily into his uncomfortable metal chair and Sherlock's arm went around his waist to help support him. "Not good?" 

"Uh... no, good," John said, voice breathy. " _Very_ good." 

"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock said, pressing a soft kiss against John's pulse point before pulling back. "I need the toilets." 

John pressed his forearms to the table in front of him, taking several slow, steadying breaths. It was all for show. He was letting himself get all worked up by it and it was ridiculous. This was just like when Sherlock pretended to be the Forgetful Normal Bloke to get into the apartment of the smuggler when they were investigating the stolen Empress' Hairpin. This was just another aspect of Sherlock's ability to put on and discard 'normal' behavior when he needed - 

"Hello, gorgeous. Let me buy you a drink?" 

John glanced up, startled out of his thoughts. The man talking to him was younger than John... younger even than Sherlock. But the interest in his eyes was unmistakable and John felt a flush of delight that a complete stranger would approach him. 

"Oh, no, I'm good," John said, giving the man a smile. 

"Then what about a dance? I haven't seen you here before." 

"Only my second night here," John admitted. "But, uh... no, no dance. I'm actually waiting on my -" 

"He's not interested." Sherlock's cold voice was right behind John, and before John could turn to greet the other man, he felt Sherlock's hands descend possessively on his shoulders. 

"Sorry," the younger man said, stepping back from the table. "I didn't realize you were taken." 

"No problem," John said, reaching up to rest a hand on top of Sherlock's. "No harm done." 

Sherlock waited until the stranger had disappeared into the thick crowd before his hands slid slowly from John's shoulders. John barely had a moment to miss them, though, before Sherlock was tugging him up from his chair and twining his arms around John's body. "I think we need to find a darkened corner for ourselves," Sherlock said, the suggestion in his voice impossible to miss. John opened his mouth to argue: how far was Sherlock going to take this charade, and how far was too far? But then he realized that he didn't care; he would happily let Sherlock do any number of things to him, even if it was all just an act. 

Some small part of his brain, intent on self-preservation, was screaming about how dangerous this was. John had been attracted to Sherlock for a year and a half, and now he was getting a chance to enjoy the touch of Sherlock's body and lips. How difficult was it going to be when this all ended and they went back to flatmates who almost never touched one another and who bickered about things like setting eyeballs on fire and whose job it was to clean up the resulting explosive mess in the kitchen? 

But Sherlock was drawing John towards a shadowy corner far from the dance floor's strobing lights. Sherlock put his back against the wall, pulling John firmly against him and tipping his head down even as John raised his own, their lips meeting for the second time in two days in a kiss just as deliciously searing as the first had been. John pressed his hips in, rubbing slowly against Sherlock's, and was surprised to find the other man was already hard. Either that hadn't taken any time at all or Sherlock had already been aroused before they'd even reached the dark corner and started the kiss. 

Sherlock's hands were gripping John's shirt at his lower back, urging John's body to press into Sherlock's even harder. John took the hint and fairly pushed Sherlock into the wall, listening to the huff of air that he forced from Sherlock. He wondered if he was being a little too forceful, but Sherlock wasn't complaining. His long fingers were sliding down John's back to cup his arse again, his tongue plunging into John's mouth. He tasted like the vodka and Red Bull he'd been sipping at their table, a mixture of sweetness and the lingering tang of the alcohol. John groaned heavily in appreciation, his own hands holding the back of Sherlock's head, tangling into Sherlock's sweat-dampened curls. 

_'It's all a show,'_ John reminded himself as Sherlock rutted his hips into John's, stroking his erection firmly into John's body over and over again. _'Just a show.'_

And Sherlock broke the kiss, pausing to scan the club over the top of John's head as he gripped and squeezed at John's arse. John let out a heavy, shaky sigh; see? Just a show. 

But then Sherlock's head was dipping down and he was drawing his tongue along the side of John's neck, mimicking the move he'd done earlier at the table. Just like before, John's entire body went limp with the wave of arousal that swam through him. Sherlock was ready this time, his arms tightening on John's body as he squeezed John's arse, keeping John from falling as his tongue trickled up and down John's neck. 

"Jesus, Sherlock," John whispered, his hands sliding out of Sherlock's hair and down his shoulderblades. "Oh, Jesus, yes." 

Sherlock made a low, throbbing humming sound as he applied the lightest edge of teeth to John's neck and John shuddered, cock pulsing in response. Sherlock pulled back, eyes widening as he took in John's face. "Oh, _that_ was good." 

"Yeah," John managed, his voice tight. 

"I'm curious if I'd have the same response," Sherlock said, tipping his head slightly to one side and baring the long line of his throat. 

"You want... oh, right," John said, brain slowly catching up with what was going on. He leaned forward, pressing soft kisses up the line of muscle until his lips brushed the edge of Sherlock's jaw. Then, slowly, he drew his tongue down the same line of muscle until it bumped over Sherlock's clavicle, savoring the tang of Sherlock's sweat on his tongue. Sherlock was fairly gasping, hands clenching almost painfully hard on John's arse. John leaned back to look at Sherlock's flushed face, the other man's lips parted and eyes shut, eyelids fluttering faintly. 

"John," Sherlock managed to whisper, "that was _very_ good." 

John laughed softly, agreeing with that assessment. But Sherlock was drawing his hands slowly up John's lower back and around to his stomach, shoving softly but insistently. John stepped back, wondering what on earth was going on. 

"We should get going," Sherlock said, voice still slightly unsteady but gaining control with each word. "After a display like that, they'll surely expect we're heading home to have sex. We can come back tomorrow night, assuming that no one new has disappeared by then." 

"I... we... but.." John stuttered, unable to believe what was happening and yet somehow completely unsurprised by it. 

"Come on, John," Sherlock said, sliding past John. He took hold of John's hand, dragging the shorter man after him, and John pressed his lips together hard enough to hurt. 

_'Just a show, you idiot,'_ he reminded himself. He'd probably need a cold shower or a wank once they got back to the flat... possibly both. Unbelievable. 

* * * * *

Sunday night, the club was just as packed as it had been on Friday and Saturday. Just like the night before, Sherlock moved straight to the dance floor. John tried to stand back a little ways, tried not to watch the other man twisting lithely in perfect synchrony to the music, tried to pretend he wasn't as addicted to the sight of Sherlock as he absolutely was. 

They'd gotten back to the flat the night before, and John's raging hard on had still been raging. Sherlock had paused only long enough to glance at the kitchen table and his waiting experiments before he'd disappeared into his bedroom, leaving John standing alone and frustrated in the sitting room. John had decided to pass on the cold shower; he didn't want to be standing in the bathroom just off Sherlock's bedroom. It would have been torture knowing that the person who was both the object of his frustration and the key to his relief was only a few feet away. 

He'd gone up to his own bedroom and had an incredibly satisfying wank. He'd replayed all the kisses and touches in the club and mentally taken them further, burying his face into his pillow when he breathlessly cried out Sherlock's name as he came. Despite that, John still spent half the night tossing and turning, frustration bubbling in his gut. He had been half tempted to beg off the case, leave Sherlock to handle it on his own... but he couldn't do that to his friend. 

Sherlock hadn't come out of his room until late afternoon; John hoped the late start meant that the other man had managed to get some rest, despite his habit of not bothering with sleep when actively involved in a case. But Sherlock looked as ragged and sleep-deprived as John felt. They had moved around the flat cautiously all afternoon, acting as if every step they took might trigger a bomb of some kind. None of the books John picked up were even remotely interesting and Sherlock had thrown both his violin and his laptop onto the sofa in disgust after only a few minutes of trying to amuse himself with each. 

But Sherlock seemed perfectly able to lose himself in dancing. His hips were swaying teasingly and he glanced over at John, eyes heavy-lidded and lips quirking. 

"Jesus," John muttered. If Sherlock was playing it up this much already, John was going to have a worse night tonight than he'd had the night before. 

Sherlock gestured John to come closer. After a brief hesitation, John complied; in for a penny, in for a pound. 

Sherlock draped his arms over John's shoulders, hips still swaying as he danced. John smiled up at the taller man, his own hands sliding onto Sherlock's mid-back as he tried to match Sherlock's moves to the best of his own ability. After a few minutes, he realized he was honestly enjoying himself and let both the music and Sherlock's body wipe away all his thoughts. 

When Sherlock finally dragged John off the dance floor many songs later, they were both laughing and sweating. Sherlock leaned down to press his lips against John's, their panting breaths mingling for a moment. 

"Drinks?" John asked, nodding towards the bar as Sherlock dropped into one of the uncomfortable metal chairs around a small table. 

"Yes," Sherlock replied, eyes scanning the club. 

Several minutes later, finally cooling off from dancing with the help of their drinks, John spotted the same woman he'd seen the last two nights lounging against a different wall, her eyes sweeping the crowd. He took a drink, keeping his eyes on the woman, and noticed her staring at him and Sherlock with intensity. 

"That woman," John murmured, leaning close enough to Sherlock that he had to brace his palm on Sherlock's chest, "from the last two nights? She's staring at us." 

"She has been all night," Sherlock said, lips brushing lightly across John's temple. "I believe we will need to step up our game tonight." 

John felt a thrill tremble through him. What did _that_ mean? 

"As soon as we finish the drinks, we'll find a corner to hide in. After a few minutes, we'll need to have an argument." 

John felt his mouth pull into a moue of displeasure and brought his hand up to rub across his lips, hoping Sherlock hadn't seen the expression. "Like Farley and Jack did?" 

"Exactly," Sherlock said, bringing his drink up to take a swallow before returning his lips to John's temple. "I'm hoping that it will draw their attention and they'll -" 

"Hey! Any luck yet?" 

John almost jumped out of his skin. He'd been focusing completely on the low purr of Sherlock's voice in his ear that he hadn't even noticed someone approaching them. Farley's higher, thinner voice intruded unpleasantly and John and Sherlock both turned to look at the younger man. 

"Am I... interrupting?" Farley asked, brow furrowing as he took in the looks on John's and Sherlock's faces. 

'Yes!' John wanted to shout, but instead he cleared his throat and forced a smile. "No, not at all. We were just..." 

"Detecting?" Farley offered, reaching up to run a hand nervously through his ginger hair. "Detecting while undercover?" 

John pressed his lips together. "Yeah. Which would go better if you weren't here." 

"Oh, right!" Farley said, smiling uncomfortably, his eyes flicking past John and Sherlock to scan across the club. "Sorry. I'll go sit at the bar. I just wanted to... to be where Jack and I spent so much time, you know? We'll talk later, I'm sure." 

Farley threaded through the crowd and John let out a sigh, turning to look at Sherlock. But Sherlock's eyes were narrowed and he was staring after Farley's retreating form. 

"Sherlock?" John asked, turning to look after Farley and then back up at Sherlock. "What is it?" 

"Hmm? Nothing," Sherlock said, still staring with narrow-eyed intensity at Farley. "Let's get back to what we were doing." He tossed the rest of his drink back and rose from the table. John finished his own drink in two quick swallows and stepped up behind Sherlock, wrapping his arms around the other man's body, finger splayed across Sherlock's chest. 

"Where are we heading?" John asked, raising on tiptoes to run the tip of his tongue up the outside of Sherlock's ear. He did not miss Sherlock's shuddering exhale, and he smiled. 

"Near the woman who has been so interested in us all night. Let's give her a personal show," Sherlock murmured over his shoulder, eyes meeting John's for a second. One of the spotlights from the dance floor flashed across Sherlock's face, briefly haloing him in red and throwing shadows across his face. 

_'Temptation personified,'_ John thought. _'My own personal incubus.'_

"All right, then," John said, his voice low. "Let's put on a show." 

Sherlock led them through the crowd, John's arms still wrapped tightly around Sherlock as he followed behind. As they approached the wall Sherlock had been aiming for, the taller man turned in John's embrace, finishing the last few steps to the wall backwards. His back hit the wall gently and John took one last step to press them tightly together from chest to thighs, chests and bellies pressing over and over as they both breathed hard in anticipation. 

_'Sherlock's just keyed up from the possible culmination of the case,'_ John told himself. _'Meanwhile, I'm gasping like a junkie about to score his next hit.'_

And then Sherlock's mouth was on John's, his hands tightening on the back of John's button-up shirt hard enough to pull it free from his trousers. John fisted one hand into the front of Sherlock's shirt, tugging at it gently, while his other hand plunged greedily into Sherlock's curls. There was every possibility that this was going to be their last night on this case. If so, John was going to really indulge. 

Sherlock's hips were sliding back and forth against John's, undulating in time to the music. His tongue was teasing against John's and, once again, John could taste the blend of Red Bull and vodka in Sherlock's mouth, sweet and nearly as intoxicating to John as if he were drinking the mixture himself. John gripped Sherlock's curls, pulling lightly to tip Sherlock's head into a better position for John to plunge his tongue deeper into the taller man's mouth, and Sherlock complied with a soft, open-mouthed sigh. John let go of Sherlock's shirt, bringing that hand up to join to first one by plunging it into Sherlock's heavy curls next to his temple, enjoying the silky slide of the hair through his fingers. 

The slow rub-bump-rub of Sherlock's erection across John's was beginning to distract John from the pleasure of Sherlock's lips and tongue. As if he realized that John was losing focus, Sherlock broke the kiss and began to nibble his way along John's jaw, up towards John's ear. 

The undulation of Sherlock's hips had sped, moving beyond the rhythm of the song. It was just the right speed, John thought, that if Sherlock didn't stop very, very soon, he was going to need to untuck the rest of his shirt to cover a wet spot on the front of his trousers. 

Sherlock's tongue slid up and down the outer edge of John's ear, and then Sherlock's deep, purring voice was whispering, his breath blowing against John's ear in hot little puffs. "I love feeling you pinning me against the wall. I can feel how hard it makes you, having this little bit of control over me. It's gorgeous, John. _Gorgeous_." 

And Sherlock dipped his head, teeth nibbling along John's neck in just the right spot to leave John boneless. John shuddered hard, gasping and clenching his fist in Sherlock's hair hard enough to draw a single soft, quick whine from Sherlock's throat. 

"Better stop," John said, his voice heavy with need. "I'm going to ruin my pants if you don't." 

Sherlock's hips stilled and John felt a hot flush of shame. Now his flatmate knew exactly how out of control this whole thing had gotten. He both heard and felt Sherlock's heavy sigh as it gusted against the side of his neck. John knew that any second now, Sherlock would pull away, disappointed in how easily John had been overcome by hormones. 

But Sherlock _didn't_ pull away. The hands gripping the back of John's shirt softened, stroking up and down John's back. Sherlock pressed the softest kiss to the side of John's neck, murmuring something John couldn't quite catch but which sounded like "Every time." 

"What?" John asked, pulling back a bit. 

"Nothing important. We'll need to have our fight now," Sherlock said, his eyes lingering for a moment on John's mouth before ticking up to meet his gaze. John was helplessly distracted by how his hands had disheveled Sherlock's curls, leaving them charmingly fluffy. "Nothing too loud, but we do need to get our mystery woman's attention." 

"Right," John said, wishing the aching throb of his cock would quiet down. It was already distractingly loud in the club; having an hard on so intense that it literally ached was absolutely ruining John's ability to pay attention. 

"How long have you been seeing Farley behind my back?" Sherlock asked, his voice loud enough that John didn't have to struggle to hear it. For a second, he could only stare, confused as to what was going on. Thankfully, Sherlock filled the silence while he waited for John to catch up. "Don't stare at me like you have no idea what I'm talking about. This has obviously been going on for awhile! You seemed very familiar with him back at the table." 

" _Nothing's_ going on," John said, raising his own voice a bit. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blonde mystery woman turning to look at them. 

"I don't believe you," Sherlock insisted, putting both hands on John's chest and giving a little shove. John stumbled back, unable to stop himself from glancing down to see Sherlock's erection clearly pressing against the front of his trousers. The sight knocked the sense out of John for another moment, and Sherlock dived in to save them from losing the small amount of steam they'd managed to build up. "He seemed to know you awfully well for 'nothing' to be going on." 

"He's a friend," John said. "Just a friend. I've chatted with him a few times, that's all. He was just saying hi. You heard him - just saying 'hi.'" 

"It was the _way_ he said it," Sherlock insisted, reaching one long-fingered hand up to drag it through his curls, disheveling them even more. "Look, _you_ take a few minutes to get your story straight. _I'm_ going to the loo." 

And Sherlock turned, sliding through the crowd and away from John. Unable to stop himself, John turned to follow Sherlock with his eyes, leaning his back heavily against the wall behind him. Well, at least he was no longer quite so ragingly hard. Small favor. 

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to meet the sympathetic smile of the blonde mystery woman as she stepped up next to him. "Are you okay?" 

"Yeah," John said, reaching down to tug his button-up shirt free of his trousers so it would drape over his slowly softening hard on. "Just... a fight with my b-boyfriend." He'd stuttered on the word. Hopefully she'd assume he was just upset, not that he was so unused to calling Sherlock his 'boyfriend' that the word had been impossible to say naturally. 

"Yeah, I heard," she said. "Look, I own this club; would you like to get away from the crowd for a minute, try to catch your breath and calm down?" 

John's eyebrows went up. She caught the look and laughed quickly, holding her manicured hands up with palms facing John in an 'I-mean-you-no-harm' gesture. 

"I'm not hitting on you," she said quickly. "Like I said, I own this club and I see a lot of lover's quarrels. I'd like it if you could get away and calm down before your boyfriend comes back so that the two of you don't end up coming to blows. You seem like a nice man, and I'd hate to call the police on you." 

"Hah. Yeah, good point," John said, pushing off the wall. "Sure, lead away." 

The woman smiled brightly, moving past John with a soft sashay of her hips, walking across the club towards the door marked Employees Only. She managed to walk across the hard cement floor without her heels clattering; impressive. John pulled his mobile from his trouser pocket, quickly thumbing in a text to Sherlock as he followed her: _Bk office_. 

"This says Employees Only," John said, hesitating when the woman pulled a key from the small clutch purse in her hand to unlock the door. 

"Didn't notice it the other night when you and your boyfriend walked in." The woman gave John a quick smile, taking the sting out of the words. 

"Ah, right," John said, surreptitiously looking out across the club, scanning for Sherlock. 

"But, it's all right; you'll be with me," the woman said, throwing another bright smile at John as she pushed the door open. The hallway was as dimly lit as it had been when he and Sherlock had broken in two nights before; it barely disturbed the atmosphere of the club. "After you." 

John stepped past her, giving her a quick smile as he moved past. She stepped in after him, pulling the door shut behind them and engaging the thumb latch. 

"Down this hall and around the corner," she said. "The office is just past the bend." 

John started down the hall, hoping Sherlock would receive his message in time. He was just rounding the corner when something struck him and everything went dark. 

* * * * * 

John came to with a familiar, deep voice purring in his ear. "John. It's time to wake up, John. Wake up. John." 

He was sitting down, leaning against an uncomfortably rough wall. He could feel the press of the wall through the thin cotton of his shirt. And his head was absolutely _splitting_. How the hell had he gotten... wherever he was? And how had Sherlock gotten here? He'd been with the blonde woman, last he remembered. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, blinking his eyes open carefully. One wouldn't quite open and John realized his eyelid was stuck shut. "What the hell...?" 

"Blood," Sherlock said, sounding regretful. "They appear to have knocked you out with a blow to the head, and the wound has bled rather copiously down the side of your face and over your left eye. I have a wet flannel here..." 

With his good eye, John focused on the bit of cloth Sherlock was offering. He took it and began wiping carefully at his stuck eyelid, swabbing at the blood until he was finally able to open the eye again. The previously-white flannel was now fairly well covered in red and John sighed; head wounds always bled a ridiculous amount. With both eyes open, he pushed himself up the rough-hewn wall a bit, trying to get into a more comfortable seated position, legs splayed out in front of him on the hard cement floor of what appeared to be a stripped-bare office with a second, padlocked door in the far wall. Well, not totally bare: there was a grate-covered drain in the center of the room and a single bucket in one corner. From the smell of the room, the bucket was meant to be a toilet. 

"He awake?" another familiar voice asked, and John turned to see Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard, standing just inside an open door through which John could see the hallway he had come down with the blonde woman. Greg's hands were propped on his hips as he looked John up and down, his mouth tight with sympathy. 

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered in an annoyed tone, not even bothering to look away from John. 

"Sorry you missed all the fun," Greg said, giving John a tight smile. "Sherlock texted me about an hour and a half ago to tell me he had solved a series of missing persons cases and gave me this address with instructions to find a skinny ginger nerd." 

"You said that?" John asked, looking up at Sherlock. 

"Thin, ginger-haired, with glasses," Sherlock said, eyes narrowing slightly as he glanced over at Greg. "The rest is all Lestrade's embellishments." 

"Anyway, turns out the skinny ner -" Lestrade broke off, grinning at Sherlock's long-suffering expression. "The skinny kid had been working with another man and a woman to kidnap men and women from local nightclubs for a growing forced prostitution ring in eastern Europe." 

"I thought prostitution mostly affected young men and women," John said, raising an eyebrow. "Not to disparage myself, but no one would call _me_ 'young.'" 

"Yeah, there's apparently been a demand for a variety lately," Greg said, his voice dry. "From what we've managed to get out of the three of them so far, the men are tied down at the mercy of whoever pays for them, and the tastes of their clients are wide and varied. They'd been looking for an older blond man, apparently, and with the photographs of you and Sherlock being published in the papers recently, they had easy access to exactly what several clients were demanding." 

"What about the man we were looking for?" John asked, looking away from Greg to catch Sherlock's eyes. "Jack Brisbane, the bartender? Was he even real?" 

"Oh, he's real," Greg said. "Although he wasn't actually a bartender; just another clubber. Donovan is actually raiding this group's holding area across the city right now. Last I heard, she'd found nine men in shackles waiting to be shipped to their final destination. You were going to be lucky number ten." 

John shuddered, relieved to have been spared of that experience. He was surprised when Sherlock's hand settled gently on his knee, soothing him. John looked down at the graceful long fingers on his trousers and then up at Sherlock, but the taller man was looking over at Greg, speaking. "We're going now, Lestrade. I will come by The Yard tomorrow morning to go over everything." 

Greg wasn't looking at Sherlock. Rather, he wasn't looking at Sherlock's _face_ ; his surprised expression was focused on Sherlock's hand where it rested on John's knee. After a moment of stunned silence, Greg seemed to realize Sherlock had been speaking to him and he dragged his eyes up to Sherlock's face, a slow smile spreading over his mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, okay, Sherlock. Tomorrow's fine. Late morning, okay?" 

"Fine," Sherlock said, rising smoothly to his feet and offering John his hand. After a brief hesitation, John reached up and took Sherlock's hand, pushing to his feet as Sherlock pulled gently. John stumbled once he was on his feet, head swimming, and the hand that had been pulling him up was suddenly sliding behind him, helping to keep him on his feet. "Ready?" 

"Yeah," John said, pressing the cool, wet flannel to his forehead where it felt like the headache was trying to pop through his skull. 

"Let's go, then," Sherlock said, leading him from the stripped down office and back into the dimly lit hallway. They rounded the L-bend and John saw the club ahead through the open door. The lights were all turned up now and the club looked less like it was rich with possibilities and more like a room that desperately needed to be wiped down with industrial strength bleach if there was any hope of getting all the spilled drinks and other substances off the floors and walls. 

Sherlock kept an arm around John until they were safely settled in the back of a cab, and then the taller man scooted to his own side and stared silently out the cab window at the passing night. That was not unexpected, although John couldn't ignore the disappointment that Sherlock's actions sparked in him. 

When they pulled up in front of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock flung himself from the cab and into the flat without a word, leaving John, smeared in blood and with an aching head, to pay the cabbie. So, everything was back to normal again. All right. 

John headed upstairs to the flat slowly. He'd regained his balance, thank God, so he probably didn't have a concussion. His head was still throbbing sickeningly, though, and he just wanted to take a few paracetamol, clean the blood off of himself, and collapse into bed. It was late, he was tired, and he'd frankly had enough of this damned day. 

He stepped into the sitting room with a sigh, relieved to be back at the flat, and pushed the door shut behind him. When he turned around to head to the kitchen to look for the paracetamol, though, he nearly collided with Sherlock. 

"What the hell?" he said, stepping back so sharply that he ran into the sitting room door. His head gave a disconsolate throb in response. 

"I got these for you," Sherlock said, opening his hand to show John two tablets resting on his palm. He lifted his other hand to show John a glass of water. 

"You... right. Thanks." John took the tablets from Sherlock's hand, enjoying the brief warmth of his palm against Sherlock's, and then the water glass. He swallowed the paracetamol down, draining the glass of water before handing it back to Sherlock. "Okay, then... that's it. Good night." 

"John." 

He'd been turning to open the sitting room door to head upstairs to his own bedroom and he stopped. There was something in Sherlock's voice... 

"Yeah?" John asked, turning back to look at the taller man. Sherlock looked unsure of himself, something John was not used to seeing in the tall, brilliant man. Sherlock was holding the empty glass in both hands, twisting it slowly as he stared at John's face, his eyes wide despite his drawn-down eyebrows. 

"The last few evenings have been..." 

John felt a sinking in his stomach and shut his eyes against the rising disappointment that was threatening to choke him. Here it went: Sherlock was going to remind John that he was 'married to his work' and everything that they'd been doing was a cover to solve a case and now that the case was solved, it was time to stop snogging each other against walls. 

"The last few evenings have been some of the most interesting, satisfying evenings of my life thus far," Sherlock said, and John's eyes snapped open in surprise, taking in the look on Sherlock's face as he continued. "Since I'm being completely honest tonight... getting to know you over the last eighteen months, I've found that you are the most fascinating and genuinely least annoying person I've ever been around. I had assumed this meant we could successfully be friends and flatmates, but the last three days have shown me that this isn't exactly true." Sherlock hesitated, meeting John's eyes directly. "I don't think I can go on being flatmates with you, John." 

John's shoulders slumped, face twisting in disappointment. Sherlock took in the look and for a second, his expression turned puzzled. Then, surprise swept over his face and he reached out with one hand to grip John's shoulder. 

"I mean, I can't go on being _just_ flatmates. I'm trying to say that you... you matter, John. To me. More than anyone else. Not just as a friend, either. I've enjoyed what we've been doing at the club, and I'd like to go on doing that, if _you_ want to." 

"Are you... are you trying to say you fancy me?" John asked, and relief swept over Sherlock's face. 

"Yes. Exactly. Thank you." 

That was all the invitation John needed. He surged forward, pressing his lips against Sherlock's with possessive firmness, plunging both hands into Sherlock's soft, dark curls. He heard the glass shattering on the hardwood floor of the sitting room before Sherlock was digging the fingers of both hands into John's hips, tugging at them until he and John were pressed together. The late hour didn't matter. John's headache didn't matter. The smashed glass on the floor didn't matter. The only things that mattered were the slide of John's tongue against Sherlock's and the way Sherlock's hips were swaying slowly against John's in a less flashy version of the undulation that he'd used at the club to nearly have John getting off in his pants. 

Sherlock's hands slid down the back of John's untucked shirt until he could reverse their direction, fingers stroking slowly up the bare skin of John's lower back. John groaned softly in the back of his throat at the feel of Sherlock's cool fingers spreading against the warm skin of his lower back. And then those long fingers were sliding down again, past the waistband of John's trousers to cup John's arse firmly through the thin layer of his pants, pulling John's growing erection firmly into Sherlock's groin. 

Sherlock broke the kiss, hips still sliding slowly back and forth against John's for a moment before he gave a quick, bitten-off laugh, brow furrowing when John looked at him in confusion. "There's still blood all down your face." 

"Oh." John pulled one hand from Sherlock's curls, running his fingers lightly down the side of his face and feeling the roughness of dried, cracked blood. Having his attention drawn back to his injury had reignited the headache, too. Apparently, hormones could only do so much. "Right. I should probably clean that off..." 

"And after that, would you be interested in joining me on the sofa? I did promise to try and get you to ruin your pants," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. 

"What? When did you promise that?" John asked, looking up at the smirk Sherlock was trying to prevent from sliding over his face. 

"In the club when you told me you were in danger of ruining them. I said 'another time.'" 

"Oh. _Oh_ ," John said, feeling another low pulse of desire. "Then, yeah... once I'm cleaned up, I'd _love_ to see you try."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
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> See you in the next fanfic.


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